Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
Author's Note: Whoa. What happened there? I'm not quite sure myself, but I hope to get back on track and update more (somewhat more) regularly. I hope also that I didn't lose everyone who used to be following this story. XD
I want to thank again everyone who's been reading and reviewing so far—your encouragement and feedback are just beyond wonderful and I appreciate every single review more than I can likely thank anyone enough for (but I will do my best!). Please to enjoy the latest chapter!
Reviews, feedback, and constructive criticism are welcome and valued greatly. Thanks so much for reading!
############################################################################################################
Chapter Six: You Can't Help Me Now 'Cause I'm In The Grip Of A Hurricane
############################################################################################################
Why the hell was he having such a hard time keeping his mouth shut? Lassiter was furious with himself, giving in to the wiles and charms of women—just a few bats of an eye, a plump pout, a few tears of pain or shock, and he was . . . gone.
Lassiter frowned hard. This was a very convenient excuse he'd thought up for himself, but he couldn't quite believe in it. Both O'Hara and Vick . . . O'Hara, more so. Why? Why had he given away so much, even in the smallest increments? It was all adding up, before he knew it it would all be on the table, ugly and regurgitated. He felt sick enough already.
"He . . . liked me." That statement had been on the tip of his tongue as he'd sat in Vick's office. Instead, he'd heard his voice say, "He knew me so well."
Vick had almost gotten it out of him too; she had been quite serious when she'd stated they were going to talk. Well, she talked and he sat still, uncomfortable, almost feeling as if Saul stood to the side of him, grip his shoulder tight. "Tell her," the ghost hissed, "how much I liked you, Lawman." Saul laughed in his ear. "How much," the ghost breathed, "I still . . ."
Hell, the killer was always there. Lassiter knew he'd be lying to himself to deny it. "Tell her," Saul continued in a smoky whisper, "why I kept your face pretty enough for the pictures." He chuckled, taking a short stroll around the office. "'Cause I already knew the man the kind of man you was—"
Eventually, Lassiter bolted upright from his chair, doing his damnedest to hide the quaking of his limbs from her. The goddamn problem was that both she and O'Hara meant well—hell, they wanted things for him now that he wasn't ready to fathom deserving for himself.
"I wanted your heart," Saul breathed, showing his teeth. When he turned in profile, Lassiter caught a glimpse of the bullet hole in his forehead.
"Detective? Detective?"
Lassiter breathed hard, realizing much too slowly that Vick had stood up, gotten close enough to him to put her hand on his arm. He hadn't even been aware. Lassiter shook her off. "I'm fine," he insisted to the floor.
"Dee-tech-tive." It was layered over—or under—her words. That he was here, in Vick's office—well, wasn't he even bold enough to "appear" around O'Hara, even when O'Hara forced Lassiter's full attention?
Vick, he was grateful, let it go. She looked him over with apprehension, seeming to regret her decision. He wasn't about to open his mouth and ruin it in any way; she was not allowed to renege on this. Vick pursed her lips. "Carlton," she said quietly, "I want you to promise me something."
He nodded tightly, as if he already knew what it was.
Vick sighed. "Please—please call me, if you need . . ." She checked to see if her words were registering behind his eyes. "Even if . . . you don't want to talk, but . . ." Vick broke off again. Her eyes stared at his shoulder, unfocused. Was she trying not to cry? Lassiter waited, holding his breath. "There's . . . always time." She was looking at him again, in the eyes. "Do you understand me?"
Lassiter nodded again, his eyes softening. He swallowed. Vick was offering up the personal time with which she reserved for her family in the event that he needed to talk to someone about anything, from the most trite to the most serious—just to talk. Or just to . . . know there was someone on the line who gave a holy damn. Ashamed for his weaknesses, Lassiter made himself look at Vick, and was surprised to see an element similar to what constantly played across O'Hara's features. She was throwing him a lifeline from what may have been a great distance, urging him to take it, in spite of how thin it was, how it might not be able to hold his full weight, or how there was the possibly he was not yet strong enough to lift his head out of the tossing, vicious sea.
"I'll be okay," Lassiter said softly. He hoped she understood he was telling her not to worry—not so much—about him.
Vick was looking him over as if he would break right in front of her—shatter.
He could only give the smallest bits of himself away; not that he wanted to, but with the way he'd been before, letting personal details slip—it was still hard to rein in his tongue.
It was because, he was loathe to admit, he had found himself comfortable enough around certain people; it was more than just the usual—the crap that got him horrified looks, or a light slap to the back of the head, or the empty threats that he was about to get himself shot. It was more—he had been giving himself away, bit by bit, for years. Ever since the fallout of the Goochburg Incident. Ever since . . . O'Hara, Spencer and Guster had welcomed him into their happy little cult. Ever since the Chief expressed exactly what everyone in the station had wanted to and had been too scared to do on that fateful day.
Though, he wasn't any entirely changed man because of it. But, he was better.
Even these small things he thought over obsessively; was this why? Had he changed just enough but not entirely enough so that the trip to hell with Saul as his personal devil could never have been avoided? If he had stayed the same, would it really been O'Hara meeting his fate instead? Sometimes, the thought process dizzied him enough to sway, or disoriented him enough that he forgot where he was for a few seconds, or forced him to actually sit down or lean against a wall. Would he ever find himself again? He chased these thoughts all the time, down long corridors, through doors that opened up to walls, up stairs that led to ceilings, through windows with a great drop below. Then he started all over again.
It was out of context, he realized; felt a simple, warm relief flood his abdomen. They only knew . . . his side.
Even if . . . someday . . . if he was able to . . . tell . . . wouldn't just he and the dead man always know the truth?
Carlton wasn't sure if this brought him relief . . . or horror; he felt twinges of both stinging him, stabbing. He absentmindedly touched his side, then ran two fingers across his still bandaged wrist. The scars, he thought. He couldn't feel either under their dressings, but he guessed they were quite impressive, for survival. His mind replayed Vick's monologue about these re-knittings of skin, remembering that, under her words, was the thankfulness that he was still alive.
He wondered what had made her say yes—certainly, she had enough misgivings. He hadn't even had to beg.
Now, about his partner. He stole a glance in her direction. Maybe . . . maybe he did owe her a warning—a head's up. Even if it hurt her—or him—when he told her, in not so many words, that he needed some space. Softly clearing his throat, he got up and went to her.
# # #
Times, still, when he awoke, not remembering—for a few untrained, blissful seconds—where he was, what had happened, what he was supposed to do now.
The time was recent—the very recent past, he was sure. (Still, it was hard to collect the all of the exact fragments; too much of what was once clear as crystal had fogged up, had had something in the nature of candle wax drizzled over its surface.) He felt like he used to know everything—always had the perfect words rolling around in his mouth, poised to burst free with a single breath of air; it took guts, he guessed, to say those things. All of those things. He thought he could always see everything, read a scene before him fast, before all the others, as if what he was reading was mystical—palms, tea leaves, tarot cards. He had them under his spell.
And this, Shawn considered, was his recent past. He could still read a room, see quickly what others could not—or did not—want to see, but recently, there was no one standing beside him, to interpret, or cause static, or send a gentle wave of believing his way.
If he looked too far back, he could retrace every ache, could see on the map where his guilt had begun—the first to grab him by the neck. He tried to forgive himself for what he'd considered a harmless tip—in reality, he hadn't known for certain that that building housed the serial killer's alter ego.
Shawn giggled nervously to himself; what he had seen happening while he had been inside the structure's twisting intestines—and who he'd see it happening to—that was his fault. As if . . . as if the killer had been acting off of the "psychic" orders of Shawn's tilted anger, his unease.
He couldn't get the image out of his head. Lassiter, on the floor, bleeding, refusing to stand up. Snarling at Shawn to run. Lassie's voice in a hush, "He can't find you here." Subdued, broken.
But Shawn had had no way of knowing Lassiter's plans, his intentions to strike off on his own, to give the killer chase, right? No way of knowing that the killer would pin Lassiter to the floor with a few jabs of a blade, would sink his fingernails into Lassiter's flesh like a leech, right? Shawn's palate soured. No way of knowing the killer's penchant for blood letting—no, drinking. He frowned, scared for half a second. His tongue had not wagged at all then; he'd found no displaced humor learning of it—a part of his subconscious reminded him why.
Because . . . he hadn't been all together certain either Lassie or Jules could handle it; he thought he might die—or at least cry—if either of them had found it funny, had laughed. What if Lassie had agreed—his blood had been perfectly sweet, so rare or potent that the killer couldn't get enough?
His breath came out haltingly, as if he'd been running for miles. Shawn was aware of every single second of memory—it pressed up against him with its rough textures in the narrowest of hallways, flashed him, showed him its sharpened, decomposing grins—of when he found the detective. The seconds became dodgy when he raced for the darkness, dissolving as he went.
But it was a curse that he could see it all—or at least, see it more clearly when he burst out into the night, the stars hard silver diamonds above him. The air still smelled of rain, and the still soaked cement brought him chill. He was home free . . . until he dropped to his knees, his stomach rebelling. Or maybe it was his head; the bottled terror had made him into a heavy thing, like stone. What if he was never going to get away?
It was a reaction, then, when he finally drew himself up before people—friends, colleagues, those around who knew his face well—to put on a show. Put on a show, or crumble immediately; if he kept himself racing—racing away from the killer, away on his motorcycle, the wind tugging at him so hard that he was, in a too sharp turn, ripped right off his bike—then he could get through.
Why . . . hadn't his appearance alone been enough for a search warrant? Or the hazy, nervous tumble of words—as if he, too, had experienced a serious loss of blood. He could barely breathe.
Lassiter's words pitched through him quickly as he stood before the knot of police; a tiny part of Shawn was still incredulous that he had dragged himself in here without the Head Detective. There would have . . . been no way he'd could have gotten Lassiter up the steps. He saw a flash of red, then a pool of it, and a partial conversation ran through his mind.
"I'm serious, Spencer. He's smart—he'll be back soon—he can't find you here."
"Who can't?"
"The serial killer, you moron," Lassiter growled, wincing immediately. "The one expert human carver."
At the time, Shawn hadn't the few extra seconds to dwell on these terms—but it was . . . familiar, at least to the man who was saying it. "The one expert human carver."
He'd said it without flinching, said it hushed but managed to sound annoyed—as if there was another expert human carver recently plaguing Santa Barbara, as if that was the killer they should actually be searching for. Lassiter told him repeatedly, "I can't. Go without me."
Shawn swallowed, running his tongue across his teeth. These denials, at first, were put forth with the insistence that Lassiter simply couldn't go because the killer had several weapons and Lassiter had none. Then Shawn discovered, rather horribly, how seriously Lassiter had been cut. They could have managed, no matter how hard, he'd wanted to guess.
But still . . . the detective stayed on the floor. "He will kill you."
Well. Didn't he?
Shawn sat up.
Maybe Lassie hadn't been so far off with his creepy Stockholm Syndrome, since it came with an self-constructed order of protection. He'd been in absolutely no shape to fight the killer—and he'd let Shawn know this by telling him to run away. No weapons, it was a poor excuse. The knife wound, a much better one.
Besides all that . . . the killer had . . . Shawn leaned back against the wall of his latest makeshift apartment, a storage area above a Chinese restaurant. (He'd found it on a rare walk in daylight—space for rent. Why not? he'd thought.) The killer hadn't liked the interruption to all his fun. He didn't need two victims, he only needed one.
Shawn's mouth twitched; his thoughts were starting to rhyme. This was less funny than he would have liked, but it was hard not to sober up fast whenever the killer walked into his view—
Too easy, much too easy to circle back to those moments; it was a ride he'd been dragged onto, coercised into "willingly boarding"; after all, he'd driven himself there, he'd walked just behind (or just over) Lassiter's footsteps, falling to be the same gullible—and fearless—prey.
All that had occurred had snuck up on him—what came after, with what he was blameless for. He had never asked the killer to kill him, or Gus to leave his side.
No matter what would have happened, he'd been ready to half drag, half carry Lassiter the hell out of there.
The moments ran by him, ran through him, shadows with fingers, voiceless shadows which gouged him. Shawn pressed his hands to his ears, hard, as if this would stop them.
He hadn't, not once in so many months, gone to the police station, hadn't seen Juliet, or Lassiter. Gus hadn't once tried to get in contact with him. And no one had come looking, no one had cared enough to check up. No one knew the dreams he had, the dreams that held his head in a vise, the sick remorse which kept him from seeking anyone out, and from running away.
He had even stopped imagining someone, like his father, or Gus, patting the top of his head, saying his name full of hush and shush, offering to embrace him with one arm; had stopped imagining himself leaning in, giving in. Shawn was numb all over. Images of Juliet filtered through to him, fractured, wild, stained with Lassiter's blood. She'd gotten some on her face, wiped it across her cheekbone like war paint.
It was her, Little Red Riding Hood—devoid of appropriate body armor but not lacking in proper motivation—at the end of the storybook, who'd managed to eat the wolf. She'd needed no ax, just ice cold steel prepped and ready to fire, with her mouth full of fangs. She wasn't done yet with biting, Shawn feared.
She was swearing, screaming, spitting, she was wrenching out of grasps. He'd watched four officers rip her off the floor, her ponytail elastic breaking; hair spilled across her face.
He'd watched her stand outside in the night, in chaos' aftermath; what a presence, he remembered most. Her breath coming out in white huffs, in spite of the night not being that physically cold. She had been the strongest fixture, and Shawn had longed to go right up to her, embrace her, he wanted her spirit to seep into him, fill up his marrow.
But it was the night he'd almost died too; he was out of daring.
After a while of this, wall to wall Juliet, just as she was—after she had learned she knew the enemy, Shawn felt his heart pounding in his ears. Those tales in storybooks mostly had relatively happy ends. Well. It was . . . could be. Black and white, wasn't it? The good prevailed, the bad perished, life went on. Sure. Sure it did.
Where did he belong in this tale? In a wasteland, left and forgotten about, rotting?
Maybe.
He had no one to face, then, no one to go face to face with. Shawn turned the phrase over and over in his mind, until just the word "face" rolled off his tongue, monotone. No one to face. No face. Face. He touched his own, to be reassured he hadn't lost his.
# # #
"McNab! There you are," Lassiter called out, startling the younger officer. McNab, standing at the small hutch where the coffee pot and cups were housed, had had his back to Lassiter. McNab turned fast, spilling a few drops off coffee on the floor. He stared at it nervously, then flicked his eyes to Lassiter's approach.
Lassiter kept his pace even, noting that McNab stood stock still, torn between curiosity and fear. As Lassiter drew closer, McNab broke out a smile.
"Sir, is there something I can do for you?"
Lassiter nodded, forcing himself to smile. "Glad you asked." As he reached the hutch, Lassiter patted McNab's shoulder. McNab again looked nervous. Lassiter looked over his shoulder in both directions—all clear—then turned back to Buzz. "Look," he began, dropping his voice, "I'm about to entrust you with something vital and important." Lassiter paused to be ensured McNab was paying attention—and that what he was about to ask for would not be shared with any other member of the department. "What I need most from you, McNab, is a sworn statement that you will perform this errand discreetly, keep your findings to yourself, and present only me with a written report." Lassiter raised both eyebrows. "You think you can handle that?"
McNab's eyes, Lassiter had noticed while he'd spoken, had grown fuller, twinkling with enthusiasm, earnest to fulfill anything Lassiter might ask of him. As he'd opened his mouth to speak, Lassiter cut him off. "Because if you think you can't handle it, I'll have to turn this project over to someone . . . much less qualified than you."
McNab looked worried; he didn't want to lose his chance. He shook his head furtively, about to start pleading to do it—in spite of not having any clue what it was. "No, sir, Detective—I mean, yes, sir—I mean—I mean, you can trust me, sir."
"Glad to hear it." Lassiter stopped him from saluting by pretending to throw his arm into the air at McNab's shoulder the same time the officer was raising his hand. Lassiter barely suppressed rolling his eyes, but made himself apologize for his "clumsiness". "Oops," he mumbled. The last thing he needed was for someone walking by to see McNab playing boy scout; what he needed here was secrecy.
"But we're clear, aren't we?" Lassiter asked, narrowing his eyes.
"Clear?" McNab repeated, sounding confused.
"Clear that this important project's results are for my eyes only," Lassiter continued firmly. He was dreading the next part, because he knew McNab was not as daft as he looked; he was bound to have questions. "I need you to . . . this is top secret, McNab." Lassiter staged whispered the words "top secret". "You are not to discuss this with any of your buddies, O'Hara, or the Chief. To be safe, don't mention it to anyone. Do I have your word?"
For a moment, McNab was speechless. Then his face split into a grin. He looked proud. "Gee, yes! Yes, sir!"
"Great," Lassiter said. He put his arm around the officer's shoulder, steering him away from the hutch and down the hallway. "Let's talk more in private." When they got in view of people, Lassiter dropped his arm to his side so as not raise suspicions he was buddying up to McNab. It occurred to him that some might think he was veering towards his version of normalcy, while others would wonder if he was up to something—or possibly sick beyond repair. Lassiter quickened his pace just slightly so that he was a few natural steps ahead of the officer. He got the door of an empty interview room and went in first. McNab followed, leaning against the table as he waited for Lassiter to explain.
"McNab," Lassiter began once he closed the door, "what I need you do for me requires a bit of a journey into the past." He swallowed, feeling his mouth suddenly dry. "I need—" Lassiter coughed, turning away for a moment. Why was it so hard to go back to that day and discuss even the minutest parts of it in front of other people? Why did it flash before his eyes as if it were a never-ending dream? He took a few seconds to collect himself. "I need you to trace the records for my cell phone from the day I . . ." Lassiter stared blankly at the wall. "The day I ended up in trouble." He jerked his eyes to McNab, fiercely hoping he would not have to say more.
McNab stared back with seriousness. "The serial killer?" he breathed. Buzz abandoned leaning against the table. He had not been among the group off officers led by the Chief and Juliet O'Hara to find Lassiter that night, but he had certainly been there after, visiting the Head Detective in the hospital as soon as visitors were allowed. At first, he didn't know what all of the bandages were hiding, but eventually he learned just enough to turn his stomach. To Buzz, the past situation was still unreal, nearly impossible to believe, but he was grateful that, in this "new reality", Detective Lassiter was alive and well. Still kicking, functioning.
Lassiter nodded, relieved, then gave the approximate time he'd likely sent the text. (He'd already spent a long time thinking it over—long enough that he'd gained a time frame so he had proof when he went to confront O'Hara.) "That phone was destroyed," he continued, "but I know there are records that can be located. All I want is the number and name to which I sent an errant text message." He pretended to look apologetic. "It seems like a small thing, but it's not."
Buzz nodded, chewing on it, but started to look scared. He wagered a question. "But, Detective—to do this I'll have to let the techs in on it, and you said—"
Lassiter shook his head, his eyes flashing with annoyance. "I already thought of that," he snapped. "What you will not do is offer any other details that what I tell you. Is that clear?"
For a moment, Buzz seemed to shrink as he winced at Lassiter's harsher words.
Lassiter sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He wasn't lying before; he really did trust McNab—and only McNab—to carry this out for him with absolute secrecy. It wasn't going to help his cause if he lost the officer. "Look, this a matter of great importance for me. I seriously need your help here. Will you help me?"
Buzz breathed shallowly. On the inside, he was doing uneasy cartwheels; he had wanted to believe that the day would come where Detective Lassiter would need his help—but there was a tiny bit of niggling negativity that had always told him that day was likely not to ever come. But . . . it had. Instead of telling his snarling inner voice "I told you so", Buzz felt hollow in that spot within himself. This . . . this was not what he was expecting.
Still, it was not good to look a gift horse in the mouth. Lassiter needed his help, after all! Buzz banished his misgivings and put on a brave, friendly face for the detective. "I am committed to your service, sir. Whatever it is you want—I'm ready to do it for you."
Lassiter's mouth twitched. He knew he could count on this one. A biting memory; there had been a brief consideration of becoming more friendly to McNab—while still not upping the level of respect. He knew he'd better say it now, or risk not getting the chance to say it, ever. "Thanks."
Buzz was flustered, but swallowed it quickly. He was glad when Lassiter started talking again so he wasn't required to fill the silence.
"Now, I need you to hold onto your findings for . . . a couple of weeks. I'm . . . going on assignment outside of town, which is why I can't do this errand myself. You are to tell the techs that . . . this information is critical to the investigation, but it is also to be confidential—on my orders." Lassiter arched an eyebrow meaningfully.
Buzz nodded, but he looked baffled. It took him a few seconds to collect his thoughts. "Pardon me, sir, but you said you're going out of town for a case?"
Lassiter sighed. He stared at the floor, focusing on a dirty spot just to the left of a table leg. It could be blood, he speculated. "That's right," he affirmed.
"You and Detective O'Hara are going—"
"No," Lassiter broke in sharply, snatching his eyes from floor. "This mission is mine, alone, McNab. Let's get one thing crystal clear here." As he spoke, his voice rose in pitch and gruffness, and he stepped toward the younger officer, waggling his finger in his face. "You are not to converse with O'Hara about anything I have told you in this room! And if the Chief asks you anything, you tell her that the favor is for me, and that if she has any questions, she can contact me directly." Lassiter's finger stopped a couple of inches in the direction of Buzz's nose. Lassiter stared at him. He's no threat, get control of yourself, Carlton chided himself.
Lassiter cleared his throat and stepped back. McNab stayed where he was, chastised. "That wasn't your fault," Lassiter confessed, "but I took it out on you anyway. You're not a mind reader."
"No, sir," McNab replied. In spite of have just taken the brunt of Lassiter's outburst, Lassiter couldn't help but notice that the young officer seemed ready to embrace him at any given moment. Lassiter took another few steps back.
"You're dismissed," Lassiter instructed, throwing his hand behind him towards of the door.
After more than the few pertinent seconds it took to collect himself halfway, McNab hurried past Lassiter out of the room. His heart was beating rapidly; it was good to feel trusted, but he was still reeling from Lassiter's . . . apology?
The way he spoke it, thinly and evenly, came with a note of preparation—a "just in case" we don't speak again, ever. Buzz was almost tempted to go back, but he knew he lacked the years; Lassiter was much too unlikely to explain himself, let alone open up at all.
# # #
"When are you—?" Juliet began, trying to digest just as quickly as it was told to her the bomb he'd just dropped. He'd asked her at work—pausing at her desk for just under a minute—if she could stop by his place that evening because there was a matter of importance to discuss. Damn him for being cryptic enough to get her interested. Now she stayed in the chair that she had just sunk into, staring at the darkened front window.
"A week," Lassiter said, then got up and fidgeted with a wall calendar. "No, wait. Six days."
"Six days," she repeated. She wouldn't look at him. "And just what do you plan to do—"
Lassiter watched her clench a fist and then press it to the armrest of her chair. Because she didn't—or wouldn't—finish the sentence, he was left to assume just what she was asking. He knew he would falter if he went with the next of kin explanation—it was a bit of a white lie which the Chief had accepted, in spite of knowing full well that Carlton shouldn't be in charge of doing a death notification, since he was the victim. And he knew O'Hara already knew about his wild theories of unsolved Southwestern crimes and Saul's possible involvement in all. "I . . . I want closure," he told her. "Norton . . . my research tells me this Norton was Saul Grant's birthplace." Carlton ignored her sharp intake of breath, continuing, "I know you think that—" He cleared his throat. A part of him respected her opinions and concerns, he had to remind himself. "I know you think that none of this is good for me, but I just can't stop until I know the . . ."
"Know the what? The truth?" she cut in snidely.
He shrugged. "Maybe."
"Maybe?" Juliet repeated. "You're doing this whole thing on a maybe?"
"What the hell else is there?" Lassiter snapped.
He could see her reflection in silver in living room window. She had opened her mouth to comment, but her lips remained in a suspended "O" for a few seconds. Then her lips moved to herself, but he couldn't read them.
There's me.
"You . . . think going will bring you closure?" Juliet asked finally. She'd turned her head to the side; he was just outside her peripheral vision. "You're not going so you can take up some ill-advised one man crime solving mission?"
Lassiter growled, unable to help himself. She'd said it so nonchalantly, disarming him with the sincerity of her first question. "You really think I have the strength for that?" he shot back.
Juliet shrugged, turning back to the window. Her mind churned his words, thinking she should have accepted that drink he'd offered her when she first arrived. A few days ago, at the range—the days felt like years, now, after what she'd been told—Lassiter demanded why she cared about his well being so damn much—and she'd reminded him they were staying friends and partners with a quick jab to the stomach. He'd taken it like a man; he took it all like a man, she mused, uncurling her fist.
"I have the right," she'd spat, her voice thick. Her eyes flashed. "And I'm don't give a fuck of how resistant you are to it—I'm sticking by you. So get used to it."
She was, he had to admit, terribly persuasive in this fierce format, but he still had to laugh. As of lately, he really couldn't laugh without it turning into a choked sob, or a cough, or a small mass of wet behind his eyes. "Why?" he asked again quietly, quickly wiping his closed eyelids with a loose fist.
Instead of answering with words, she socked him in the stomach.
"O'Hara!" he protested.
"That's why," she returned cryptically, adding, "you know why, and don't you dare ask me again."
So far, he hadn't.
He'd excused himself a few minutes ago, claiming he needed to change a bandage or two.
Juliet wasn't sure if she shouldn't try reasoning with him—or hitting him—or if she shouldn't just walk away. Of all the things he would tell her, did it have to be this, a mostly vague "I'm taking a a few weeks' leave of absence"? And that he was going to take it in some tiny town barely shown on any major maps in New Mexico? She'd thought . . . she'd actually believed he had been making some progress when she got him to open up to her.
Tired of staring at her reflection—darkly—she got up and went to find her partner. This couldn't be it—all there was to say on the subject. Even if his mind was made up, even if his departure was in just six days, maybe should could persuade him to . . .
# # #
Juliet, though excellent at undercover work, was horrible at disguising her shock. She was lucky that Lassiter had her back to her, that he could not see her face—though at his angle she could clearly see his front reflected in the mirror. Her gasp was loud enough to draw his attention; she hadn't meant to stagger in here, to catch him with his shirt open, to see his scars.
Lassiter turned sharply, anger, then embarrassment, slanting his features. Quickly, Juliet covered her eyes, mumbled a sincere apology and backed out of the room.
It was too late to un-see. But . . . he didn't have to know that. Still . . . Juliet's cheeks flushed.
Juliet continued backing up, even when she was safely out of her partner's sight. She wished, foolishly, that by doing so she could erase a track in time, stop herself from overstepping her bounds.
She . . . she had seen the pictures, but . . . the jagged lines cut up and down her mind, forked, hissing, sharp and crackled like bolts of lightning. Her partner. Juliet breathed what felt like cold air. Her partner, held down. She knew she should leave, she knew lots of things weren't good for her—knew, deep down, that she had, like a paralyzing toxin, seeped into all of Lasstier's open wounds. He wasn't like her, he needed space . . . and he'd . . .
Held down. Sliced up. Deep enough to scar.
Juliet sat down on the floor on the outskirts of Lassiter's living room area. Her eyes were glassy with tears but nothing would fall.
She hadn't even meant to go in. All she had planned was to knock, her knuckles soft but firm on the outside of the door. Just get his attention.
He shouldn't find her like this, she thought, but right now she didn't trust the weight of her own body.
See. There you are. You are not lost.
In his bedroom, still in front the mirror, Lassiter noticed vaguely that his shirt had fallen back open. He was frozen to the spot, afraid to move—a duel of rage and dissociation. He wanted to pretend she hadn't come in, gliding in like a ghost with no feet; she'd seen something.
Carlton heard her shocked gasp echo inside his brain. He swallowed hard, wondering if all that had run through him had also run through her—just what it was about those scars.
They were both here, safe in his apartment, but still, Saul was always with them. A wall between them.
Juliet didn't want them to be apart; if she knew all the dimensions of the wall she'd take a sledgehammer to every chip of brick. Quickly, Lassiter reached for the buttons on his shirt.
For unexplainable reasons, he was fighting a bout of irrational fear; she was out there. His heart beat fast. He had not heard the door open, or close, had not, even though only half-aware, heard her car start, or navigate away. She had the gall to stay, that little lost thing, parking herself in the middle of his space. Carlton swallowed hard. He left the last button undone; wasn't he always exposed?
He should lecture her about privacy, he should make her feel shame, he should make her apologize. In the hallway outside his bedroom, he faltered. At this angle, he just make out the back of her head. Why is she sitting on the floor?
Carlton cleared his throat. "Juliet," he said, still out of sight. He watched her flick her head towards the sound of his voice, but otherwise she didn't move. Her first name.
Who was he really kidding? Make her feel shame? Carlton felt suddenly much older, felt as if his bones were broken. He thought he might die if she asked him any questions.
He thought about how they were—who they were—before all this; heard someone, he didn't know who, whispering in his ear. Just who? Just who . . . do you think? You are? He took the hallway with the smallest steps. She had her back to him; she hadn't moved.
Weren't they both . . . just a tad more innocent way back when? Carlton tried to see it, tried to find the man he was, standing in Vick's office, catching his partner's eye as she slinked out, sympathetic. Those were their last moments—well, together. Separately, each unraveled in their own seconds; each wondering over the other one's whereabouts—dismissing each other.
He's fine.
I don't need her.
Pretending. They still did it as adults; he still did it, at his age.
Carlton stared at the back of her head, marveling, angry, that she kept staying. What exactly, he wondered, had she to feel guilty for? No other reason to stay.
They'd already sorted out the nature of their partnership—a teary mess of snot and sobbing while he still wore a hospital gown, tucked into a bed he'd never willingly have gotten into himself. They had both failed each other; they should both want new partners—but it was the opposite; they'd locked hands like magnets; they would have to be forcibly pulled apart now.
And he was pulling them apart. In six days, he was getting on a plane. Then he'd been in Norton and she'd still be in Santa Barbara, stalking about with her dangerous fists and her sharp tongue, solving the city's crimes just like any real full-fledged detective.
Truly, he envied her that. Some part of her was still just as she was, clinging to the life she knew.
He wanted to be furious, wanted to have the nerve to throw her out. Didn't want to care if she'd cry, if she'd plead, or slug him in the stomach again and cuss him out, again. Didn't want to believe she was sticking around like a kind a paparazzi or rubbernecker, waiting to get the perfect mental photograph that would sell for millions—that she could kept forever, within herself. But he couldn't help but believe that what she really wanted was sick—that she wanted to know sick, his sick. She wanted to take it in without a blink, wanted to pull him against her, hold him.
Carlton shuddered; no embrace was ever going to fix this. She could not . . . take this from him. He didn't want her to; perversely, the whole thing belonged to him. He couldn't give it to her, wanted or not. She was flesh, light, gleaming, made of glass and stardust. He couldn't . . . empty it all into her, change her color. He couldn't let Saul muck up her skin too, couldn't let the bastard press his lips against her cheek, or cut her throat. He hissed sharply.
"Carlton?" Juliet turned her head.
It was bad dream, a waking dream. He knew that Saul might always keep him neutralized with the touch of blade against his neck, but her . . . one day, she would corner him, hold him at the wrists, a gentle squeeze, and he might give into her . . . and then, it would destroy her. Carlton flicked his eyes to her; they could almost see one another.
He fought hard to remember her, smiling, leaving Vick's office on his very bad day. She hadn't heard his drivel, his promises—she hadn't known his plans, underneath. . . . All the chances he'd had, walking that maze, to contact her.
He couldn't find his breath; someone, half ghostly, gripping a hand to his throat. "Get out," he snarled; it was nonsense in the air.
She was on her feet faster than he thought possible. Her hand was on the doorknob. He only caught a glimpse of her face.
"Not you!" he called out. "O'Hara! Not you!"